THE HAUNTED HILL Other children sped the flats
on stingray bikes,
breeze against the crimson cheek,
flesh like lacy petticoats,
certain of bobbins and color.
I chose a different, steeper road
up Siskyou Cemetery hill.
Each pedal's turn, a turtle neck
emerging from its brittle sack --
crossing lines of checkered shadows,
unaware the light was right in front of me.
I knew I was drawn to the emerald grass,
the haunting silence of dust,
intermittent bugle calls
of widows mourning by a stone,
but I didn't know you were there
in a six-foot crate
by the statue of Mary in white.

Now the sweat, the push makes sense.
All our sad what if's were there
in praline soil like marshmallow moons
between two crackers cooking
over campfire flames I couldn't see.
I would have stopped to speak to you,
stood upon that concrete slab
like bathroom scales and balance beams.
Blind men use their hands to feel.
I would have crashed death's circumstance
with daffodils and Daphne sprigs
and sterling nickels of a tear.
Begged the wind to share your voice,
counted sounds we never made.
Would have fought and fought that hill --
just to sit, to contemplate
empty creeks that craved the rain.
I would have sharpened pocket knives,
etched my cloven heart in bark.

Happy Birthday

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